Don't Mess With the Cat Lady

I' m Chloe, a nursing student, always broke and buried in textbooks, a stark contrast to my influencer-wannabe roommate, Tiffany. We tolerated each other, barely.

Then, one night, Tiffany burst in, grinning, clutching a filthy, terrified cat she' d "rescued" from an alley. "Meet Scrappy!" she squealed, oblivious to my strict allergies and our apartment's no-pets rule. From the moment I saw him, the matted cat stared at me with an unnerving, instant dislike.

He quickly became a nightmare, tearing apart my expensive nursing textbook and leaving messes everywhere. Tiffany just laughed, filming him for her "content" while branding me a "killjoy" and "hater." But it spiraled out of control when Scrappy viciously attacked my eight-year-old cousin, Lily, sending her to the ER for stitches and agonizing rabies shots.

My hands shook with a cold, desperate fury. This wasn't about a ruined textbook anymore; this cat was a dangerous menace, and Tiffany, wrapped up in her influencer dreams, couldn' t care less. I tried desperately to get rid of him, but she stopped me, and he escaped.

Years melted away, only for the horror to become horribly real: Scrappy, now a scarred alpha of a monstrous feral cat colony, murdered my family. I screamed, and then, mercifully, nothingness. I woke up. Sunlight streamed through my old apartment window. I heard Tiffany' s chirpy voice from the living room: "Chloe! Look!" It was the exact same day. The same terrifying cat. I' d seen the future, and this time, I knew precisely what needed to be done.

My name is Chloe. I study nursing at the community college. It' s hard work. I also work part-time at a diner. I need the money for rent and books.

My roommate is Tiffany. We share an off-campus apartment because it' s cheaper. That' s the only reason.

Tiffany wants to be an influencer. Her family has money. They give her whatever she wants.

She thinks I' m boring. I think she' s shallow. We don' t talk much.

One night, Tiffany came home late. She was loud.

"Chloe! Look!"

She held up a dirty, matted cat. It hissed. Its eyes were wild.

"I rescued him! From an alley behind the club. Isn't he precious? I'm calling him Scrappy."

I stared at the cat. It looked sick. And mean.

"Tiffany, you can't keep a cat here."

"Why not?" she pouted. "He needs me."

"Our landlady, Mrs. Davis, has a strict no-pets rule. You know that. And I'm allergic to cats. Not badly, but still."

My nose already started to itch.

"Oh, stop being such a killjoy, Chloe. It' s for my content. 'Influencer rescues helpless animal.' It'll be huge."

The cat, Scrappy, watched me. Its ears were flat against its head. It heard me say it had to go. I could feel its dislike. It was instant.

"He's filthy, Tiffany. He probably has fleas. Or worse."

"I'll clean him up. Don't worry about it." She cuddled the hissing cat. It tried to scratch her, but she just laughed.

This was going to be a problem. A big one.

The next morning, my nursing textbook was shredded. Pages torn, claw marks deep in the cover.

Scrappy sat on Tiffany' s bed, grooming himself. He looked at me. Then he looked at the book. He knew.

"Tiffany, your cat destroyed my textbook!"

She barely looked up from her phone. "Oh, Scrappy's just being playful. Don't be so dramatic."

"Playful? This book cost eighty dollars! And he pooped on my yoga mat."

"Ew, gross. I'll get him a litter box later. Maybe."

She posted a video. Her voice was syrupy. "Just trying to save a precious life, but some people are such haters. They just don't understand compassion." The camera panned vaguely in my direction.

I called Mrs. Davis. "There's a cat in our apartment."

"A cat? You know the rules, Chloe."

When Mrs. Davis came by, Scrappy was gone. Tiffany had hidden him in her closet, under a pile of designer clothes.

"No cat here, Mrs. Davis," Tiffany said, smiling sweetly. "Chloe must be stressed from her studies."

Mrs. Davis gave me a sharp look. I felt like an idiot.

My aunt asked me to babysit my cousin, Lily. She' s eight. I love Lily.

She came over on Saturday. I made us popcorn.

"Can I see the kitty, Chloe?" Lily asked. Tiffany had, of course, posted about her "rescue."

"He's not very friendly, sweetie. Maybe later."

I went to the kitchen to get us juice. I was gone for a minute. Maybe less.

A scream.

I ran back. Lily was on the floor, crying. Blood streamed down her arm.

Scrappy stood a few feet away, back arched, hissing. His claws were out.

There were deep scratches on Lily' s arm. And bite marks.

"He just jumped on me!" Lily sobbed.

I scooped her up. My hands were shaking.

The emergency room was cold. Lily needed stitches. The doctor talked about infection risk, rabies shots just in case.

I was furious. And scared. This wasn't just about a textbook anymore.